there's a first time for everything
by an educated fish
Summary: Q/S one-shot: 'It's during dinner at your place where it's not romantic and the food is crap and the movie that you're barely paying attention to sucks more than the food—but you blurt out that you're in love with her anyway.'


**there's a first time for everything  
**

by: _a.e.f_

/

The first time Santana kisses you, it's not romantic at all—but that's mostly because she's drunk.

And when she pulls away, still clutching onto your shirt, she throws her head back and laughs. You don't push her away, though; instead, you pull her closer, holding her by her hips as your fingers dig into the fabric of her dress, and press your lips against her shoulder.

"You taste like gasoline," you tell her.

"You taste like cancer," she mumbles back, and you wonder for a moment, your brows furrowing at her, what she means by that comment—until you remember that you've been smoking all night.

"Don't do this to yourself," you say, your voice a mere whisper. "I'm not her."

"You don't have to be," and there's something about the way she peers at you through her eyelashes when says those words that makes you nervous; makes your heart stutter in an unfamiliar way as you shuffle your feet.

And the fact that she pulls you and kisses you again doesn't bother you, it's the fact that you let her and you give in to her that does. It bothers you that you press your body against hers until there's no space left between the two of you. It bothers you that you trail your fingertips against her sides and groan as she tangles her fingers in your hair and tugs.

It bothers you that when you both pull away, panting, all she says is: "Thanks."

/

The first time you and her fuck, you're both angry.

You're angry because your alcoholic mother just called you up to tell you that she's taking back Russell, who you don't even consider to be your father anymore, _again_. And Santana is angry because—well, she's always angry lately—but you're sure it's mostly because Brittany is still on the other side of the country, fucking and loving other people who _aren't_ her.

You don't know who moves first or who kisses who first—all you know is that somehow, she manages to push you against the bed and suddenly, you're both ripping each others' clothing; so desperate and so needy.

All you want to do is _feel_, and true enough, you do and all you feel is her. You feel her in you, when she goes down on you, her tongue thrusting and licking until your writhing and sweating and clutching her. You feel her against you, grinding into you as you gasp and moan. You want to feel more of her, so you hold her by the hips and push harder, your teeth sinking into her neck as she throws her head back.

Later, she's suddenly on top of you, just lying there and running her hand through your hair. You're both still panting, still sweaty, and still against each other. Then, her hand leaves your hair and there's a mark bruising on her neck, and you're sure Santana will reprimand you tomorrow, but for now, she's too busy brushing her fingertips against scars along your shoulder that you're sure she's seen before.

She whispers, "Who did this to you?"

"No one," you tell her. "Probably fell on something as a kid."

"You're lying," she says, pressing her lips against the scars. "You told me it was a biking accident last time I asked."

You don't tell her she's wrong; there's no use, because she's not.

/

"Leather belts," you tell her one night. "That's what—what he preferred to use."

And you refuse to cry because you haven't cried about it in _years_, but the way she holds you and the way she kisses you is making it hard not to.

/

The first time you walk around New York City with her hand wrapped around yours, it's her who grabs your hand first. And you can't help the heat that reddens your face, spreading even down to your neck, especially when she slips her fingers between yours.

"Oh, _please_, Quinn," she says when notices your blush—her tone is exasperated but her eyes are amused. "We've _fucked_, remember?"

And if you weren't red enough before, you sure are now. "Jesus," you hiss at her, rubbing the back of your neck uncomfortably. "Do you have to be so vulgar all the time?"

"Live with it," she says, then waits for a beat before asking: "do you want me to let go?"

You look between you and her, and you see the sight of her hand pressing into yours so fittingly; like it belongs in yours. And there's an unanswered question at the back of your head of why you think that way, but you don't want to know the answer; not now, at least.

"No," you say, giving her a lopsided grin.

"Good," she tells you, squeezing your hand. "Besides, it's been cold, you know?"

That confuses you, just for awhile, because it's not cold at all in New York during the month of October and she's not even wearing a jacket. So, you squint and you furrow brows at her—until you realize she's not talking about the weather.

"I know," you mutter, brushing your lips against the back of her hand.

/

The first time she takes you to a sex shop, you blush so hard, you think you might actually combust.

"It's a learning experience," she tells you just before dragging you into the shop, like it would actually appeal to your constant need for knowledge. It doesn't though, because you'd rather read books written in the 1920's or watch documentaries about war and history, or even be forced to stay awake while watching_An Inconvenient Truth_ sixty times in a row, than be in a sex shop.

Still, Santana is adamant and you both end up leaving the shop with a strap-on.

Your skins is flushed all the way until you get to her apartment, and you want to die of mortification, wishing that no one you know just saw you enter and leave a sex shop with a purchase.

"Okay, okay. Why did we just do that?" you ask her once you're inside her apartment, frustrated and confused. "I mean—how was_ that_ even a learning experience? Because I'm pretty sure I've just been scarred for life with all the _things_ I saw in there."

"It's to open your eyes to new things," she answers you, smirking. "And that wasn't what I meant when I said 'learning experience'."

Your mouth is suddenly way too dry.

"Look, Quinn," she says, hooking her fingers around your belt loops and pulling you closer. "I like having sex with you. I like the way you touch me and the way you make me come. But sometimes, I just want a little more...dominance."

You swallow loudly at the tone she's using, "Y—Yeah?"

"Yep," Santana smirks, pressing her body against yours. "You know, _rougher_."

_Oh god_, you think, _this is _not_ turning me on__, this is _not_ turning me on_, _this is _not _turning me on_.

"Just _harder_," she husks, brushing her lips against your ear.

_This is _not _turning me on._

"C'mon, Quinn. Tell me that the thought of being on top of me, fucking me with the strap-on doesn't turn you on. I dare you."

Your breathing is harsher as you think about it—really, _really_ think about it.

A beat.

"Take off your clothes," you growl.

And moments later, when the bed is creaking and the headboard is bumping against the wall and all you hear is your name falling from her lips, you can't help but admit that it _is_ a learning experience. It's new and it's surreal and you'd be lying if you said that the image of her beneath you, sweating and moaning and begging you to fuck her harder, isn't the hottest thing you've ever seen.

"Wow," you pant once you've collapsed beside her. You turn to smirk at her, "I have never heard you scream my name so loud before."

She's either too tired or too sore to hit you, but she glares playfully at you.

"And you're right," you tell her, once you've caught your breath. "About the whole learning experience thing—and I think we should do this again. Soon."

She laughs and you kiss her, and there's something about the kiss—so tender and soft—that makes you wish that you could kiss her forever.

/

The first time you tell her that you're in love her, it's not even during sex.

It's during dinner at your place where it's not even romantic and the food is crap and the movie that you're barely paying attention to sucks more than the food—but you blurt out that you're in love with her anyway.

"Quinn, I—"

"Please don't," you cut her off, your eyes pleading. "I-I—I can't believe just said that."

She doesn't say anything else—you don't really expect her to—but she leans in to kiss you, holding your jaw. And no matter how much you want her to say that she loves you back, you know she won't.

She just kisses you again and again and again, until the movie, the food, and all sense of romanticism is left forgotten.

/

The first time you see her again since the incident where you blurted that you loved her and possibly fucked up even further your already fucked up relationship with her, it's at a party of a mutual friend's.

It's been two weeks since you've seen her and the first thing she does is hold your hand and ask you why you've been avoiding her. You suddenly breathe better; like you've been holding your breath all this time.

"I thought you didn't want to see me," you confess, screwing your eyes shut like you're in pain (and you kind of are, because your heart starts to feel heavy—so, so heavy). "I fucked up, San."

"No. No, you didn't," she sighs as she leans against your shoulder. "I did."

You leave the party early, with her hand in yours, and she spends the night at your apartment, where you sleep with her. It's nothing sexual or anything—it's just her in your clothes, in your bed, beside you.

And you think, if there's no such thing as perfection, then this—having her this close to you; feeling that she's with you right now and knowing that in the morning, she'll still be with you—is pretty damn near to it.

/

The first time she tells you that she loves you, you make love to her.

"I love you—_god_, I love you," she says as she comes undone, her nails digging into your back.

And moments later, when you've both gotten comfortable—your arms wrapped around her and her pressing quick kisses along you collarbone—you ask her if she means it. Then, she tells you, "I love you. I'm in love with you, and I want you; more than Brittany or anyone else, really."

You want to believe her, but it's hard to do so when you know—when you've _seen_—the way she loved Brittany, but you still want to cry because you want so much for her to love you the same way.

"Quinn," she whispers, cupping your face. "You've always been there, haven't you? You were there when I met her and when she left me. And at first, you filled a void, but somewhere along all of that, I realized that there was no void, only you."

You chuckle despite the lump in your throat, "When did you get so poetic?"

"I listen to you," she says, "when you recite poems, when you read excerpts, and even when you quote weird dead people."

Then, you kiss her, and it's slow and it's gentle and you don't need to pull away to tell her that you love her—it's in the way you run your hands along her sides, in the way your tongue brushes against hers, and the way you pull her so close, like you're afraid of letting go.

/

"Thank you," you tell her one afternoon.

"For what?"

"Just—everything, I guess."

And she looks like she's about to tease you for being so sentimental again, but then she smiles adoringly, like you're the only person in the world, and she says, "I love you so fucking much, do you know that?"

You nod, kissing her, because you do know—and _god_, you've never been so in love before.

Because it's the truth and that's all that matters.

* * *

_I was actually hesitant to post this because I just read bloodyelectro's 'Gone for the Summer' (which I loved so much) after finishing this, but I noticed our opening lines were very similar, so I panicked a bit—actually, 'a bit' would be an understatement because I actually contemplated deleting everything. But then, I decided against it because this one-shot idea has been nagging me for weeks and I enjoyed writing it so much, so I hope you enjoy reading it as well._

-a.e.f


End file.
